The Maclean finally banged down his goblet of wine, some spilling over the table.

"I will hear no more of this," he said in a low voice that nonetheless carried across the room. "The lady is already bespoken. She will be returning home."

A choir of nays echoed in the great hall.

Rory looked rueful as he turned to her. "I apologize again for the behavior of my clansmen."

"They care about you."

"They care about the clan," he corrected.

"That is you, is it not?" she asked.

"It cannot be." His gray eyes turned cool. Distant. "You will be returned home safely for your own wedding."

"I have been here overnight without chaperones," she said quietly. "If it becomes known, I will be ruined. Jamie Campbell will not be wanting me."

"Then he would be a fool," he said, his hand touching hers and sending unexpected jolts of lightning through her.

She gazed up into his eyes. In her experience, wine usually dulled eyes, but his were clear and probing.

"Still, it would be far better if no one knew I had been here."

"I take responsibility for what my clan does," he said stiffly.

"A compromise," she offered. "You can take me almost home and watch as I enter the walls."

"A noble offer," he said, but there was a hint of amusement in the words.

'Holy Mary in heaven, he seemed to read her mind.'

She took a piece of fruit and was barely able to swallow it.

She looked down the table and noted that the wine was being consumed at a much more rapid rate than the food. There were needs here.

'No. Do not think about it.'

And she would be the last person to make any change. She could not cook or run a household. She 'could' engage in swordplay. She doubted anyone at this table would appreciate that particular talent. It most likely would not go with the image of a fair and modest lady such as his kinsmen apparently believed they had captured.

She tried to eat again, but it was more than a little difficult with so many eyes on her. They all weighed, judged, speculated. Apparently they still had not given up on their fervent wish that their lord marry again.

She could not help but wonder about his wives.

"My lady?"

She started. She had been too engrossed in her own thoughts. She looked up at Lachlan.

"Perhaps you would like to name the foal. Hector said you seemed taken with the mare."

She looked at Lord Rory. She was only a guest here. Or to be more exact, a captive of sorts.

"I am sure you can think of something better than I," he said with that rare smile. "Lachlan is afraid I will call it 'horse.'"

"My brother has a practical nature," Lachlan said.

"What is the name of your ship?"

Silence. Lachlan raised an eyebrow and looked at his brother.

Rory shrugged. "'The Lady'."

"I can see why Lachlan is concerned," Felicia said, even as she wondered why it did not carry the name of his first love. Was it simply because he could not bear being reminded of her? Did people really love that much?

She had really not believed that they did, though she thought Janet and her cousin a good match. They obviously cared about one another.

Had Lord Rory Maclean had a wild passion?

And had her cheeks just flamed at the forbidden thought? It was none of her concern whether or not a Maclean was passionate. Particularly when it was quite evident that his only wish was for her departure.

Still, she wanted to know more about his Maggie.

Even surrounded by clansmen, he seemed very much a man alone. Though he had an easy manner with his clansmen, there was not the jocular familiarity that Jamie had with the Campbells. She wondered if it were a cloak of grief that separated him from others, though he did not wear it openly.

She used to think that the legend regarding the Macleans was cruel and directed toward the wrong party--the wife. But she had been wrong. It must be terrible to be left behind.

Rory Maclean stood then, as did the others.

Lachlan grinned at her. "Do you want to see the foal?"

"Oh yes. But I will be leaving. It is not fair for me to name her."

"You can tell this is a masculine household," Lachlan said. "There is not a man here who can name a filly. You would be doing us a kindness."

She turned to Rory, but he merely shrugged. "Do as you wish."

His indifference stung. But Lachlan touched her arm lightly, and she curtsied her farewell to Rory. She accompanied Lachlan to the stable and to the back of the barn. She heard a soft whinny as they approached and watched the mare nuzzle her baby.

"Oh," Felicia exclaimed as she saw the foal wobble on thin legs, seeking her meal. She was as black as her mother with a head that looked too large, but Felicia knew she would quickly grow into it.

Her heart skipped a beat and tenderness filled her soul. She never tired of seeing a newborn, particularly foals. They always seemed so ready to take their place in the world.

"She's greedy," she said.

"Aye, she will be strong and swift."

"How do you know that?"

"Her bloodlines, my lady. They are very fine. My father prided himself on his horses."

"And your brother?"

"He is a fine horseman. But now he has no special mount. Instead, he rides them all. He hesitates to keep one horse for his own use."

"Because he might lose it?"

He looked at her with surprise, and a new warmth. "He does not say as much but aye, I think that is the reason."

The foal stumbled, then regained her footing as her mother nuzzled her.

"I always think it a miracle when a foal is born. Or any birth," she added.

"We will call her Miracle then," he said.

"And I will send her to you once she can leave her mother," came a familiar voice from behind them.

She whirled around, wondering how long he had been there. Had he heard her ask questions about him?

Rory leaned against the wall. His expression enigmatic, he took a few steps forward and looked inside the stall. He did not smile, yet he seemed to relax as he watched the mare with her foal. Then she understood what he was saying. He was giving this magnificent filly to her.

Except she wouldn't be where she should be. She could imagine the surprise if the animal went to the Camerons.

"Thank you, but it is too generous an offer." Her heart cracked as she said the words. How she longed to accept his offer. She had never had a horse of her own.

"We have delayed your journey and possibly your marriage. I would feel far better if you accepted this small token as an apology."

That wasn't what she wanted at all, but more refusals might well spur questions she could not answer.

"My thanks then," she said simply, knowing she would never see the animal in a Campbell stable, not unless it was stolen. But dear Mary, how she did want the foal.

"It is becoming cold, my lady," he said. "You should go inside."

"I would prefer to stay out here and watch Miracle."

"You were ill hours ago, Lady Janet. I do not wish to return you in poor health."

His words were like hammer strokes, hard and sharp. Not to be disobeyed. She had witnessed his displeasure when she had first been brought into the bailey. His frown could quell a rebellion.

And yet his clansmen had obviously disobeyed him to bring her here, and she had witnessed no punishment. Her uncle would have taken harsh steps had he been so disobeyed.

She reluctantly acquiesced. Perhaps she would steal back down later tonight.

He offered his arm, and she wondered whether it was courtesy or simply a way to ensure he was obeyed.

She took it and felt a now familiar jolt of heat. She looked up at him and saw a startled look in his eyes as if he, too, felt a certain recognition between them, a mutual acknowledgment of attraction.

She tried to tamp the sudden excitement she felt. He made her feel more alive than she ever had before. She found herself longing for a more intimate touch. A kiss ...

She had never been kissed.

But he was a Maclean, and she was a Campbell.

And if that was not bad enough, Maclean brides did not survive. This keep and its disarray was a constant reminder.

Walk. Do not stumble on legs that always seemed to weaken in his presence.

'I am a Campbell. I can never forget that.'

Despite his best intentions, Rory was intrigued, fascinated, and, God help him, attracted to the Cameron lass.

He had been surprised when he had first met her, wet and in dishabille, and not at all bonny. In truth, his first impression was plainness, though she had a certain dignity that he respected. But now he understood why rumors abounded. She was not a beautiful woman, but she was a striking one with that flaming red hair and sapphire eyes. More importantly, she had a spirit that challenged, and a curiosity that intrigued him.

Although she appeared compliant and calm, he saw occasional flashes of rebellion in those striking eyes. This was no shrinking lass but one that stood straight and bold, though she was pretending to be otherwise.

She was as unlike Maggie as any woman he'd met. Maggie had the same surface calm about her, but there had not been the fire he sensed in the Cameron lass. Maggie had been as gentle as a butterfly and as complete in herself as a woman could be. She had longed for nothing other than her husband and children.

He suspected Janet Cameron longed for a great deal more. There was a restlessness in her that echoed his own, and her questions about the sea had not been idle conversation. Perhaps that was where the attraction lay, a shared sense of adventure.

But it was a moot thought. She was already pledged, and to a clan with which he sought peace after decades of warfare. He had resigned himself to a life without a wife, and meant to keep that vow.

He'd overheard her comment to Lachlan, and had been struck at how perceptive it had been. He did not want more losses. They were too painful, particularly when he felt partly to blame.

'How had she known that?'

Why did his heart beat a little faster in her presence? He thought he had it well under control until he heard her talk about the foal and saw the light in her eyes when she had turned to look at him. He'd been caught in the magic, in her delight of new life.

He had forgotten that magic like that existed.

They reached her chamber. He opened the door, guided her in, and intended to turn and leave. He would have done exactly that had not his hand touched hers, sparked a burning sensation that ran through his veins.

He looked down at her, at the face tilted up toward his. His eyes searched hers and found mysteries.

'Go... step back... leave her.'

Instead, he did the worst thing possible. He put a finger to her cheek and ran it along the side of her face.

She trembled slightly. Desire flamed between them.

'Go. Now!'

He leaned down and his lips touched hers in gentle exploration. She stiffened even as her lips responded to his. Her body trembled slightly, and, closing the door behind him, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her near.

He caressed her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her lips. Her body leaned into his, and his kiss deepened.

He expected her to jerk away, but instead her lips became as demanding as his own.

And the devil himself could not stop him.